Rumor Has It
by SidMax
Summary: John and Sherlock have been together for a few awhile, but a short fight between them sends Sherlock in the arms of Irene Adler. There's always more to The Woman than you can see. Rated M for later
1. Prologue: What's Been Done

This story is jointly owned by myself and Shawn.

Shawn is the one bringing my idea to life.

Inspired by Adele's Rumor Has It.

One day, possibly, I'll try my own version.

**Disclaimer:**We do not own any BBC Sherlock characters or the show itself. As much as we would like to.

**_What's Been Done_**

Years have gone by. And things are more or less the same. Sherlock and I are solving cases, as per usual. We've been trying to go places with our relationship, and for the most part, we have. But lately, something's been hanging over us. An unsettling feeling that looms about us that we can't shake. The problems of our relationship were beginning to surface.

Sherlock and I return to 221B from a case, and he sits down at his armchair, hands tucked under his chin. I take off my coat and hang it up, eyes on the detective across the room, lost in thought. I go to the kitchen to make some tea but, I try a little experiment. I stop, pivot and walk to the living room. I sit on the couch and click on the telly to a rerun of the Graham Norton Show.

When the sound from the telly knocks him from his thoughts, he gives me a glare that can only be described as burning rage. I see it in my periphery, but I just try and focus on the discussion between James McAvoy and Jack Dee.

"What are you doing?" He snarled at me, hands on his knees at this point.

"I'm watching telly. I thought that would be fairly obvious." No matter how hard I tried to stay focused on the show, Sherlock's killing stare finally won out. I looked at him, meeting his stare with my tell-tale pout, as he put it so many times before.

"_Why_ are you watching telly?" He asked, already knowing the answer, as usual, but jabbing me into admitting my game.

"If you want tea, go make it yourself."

"But you always make the tea."

"Maybe I'm tired of always making the tea, Sherlock. Maybe I don't like always having to do everything for you. You're such a child, sometimes."

"You've never complained before, and even if you did, we've always made compromises." He stood and shut off the telly and stood and put hands on his hips. He knows that makes the buttons on his shirt strain, in an attempt to distract me, which he succeeds in, but only for a moment.

"No, you end up fucking me and it shuts me up until the next time I complain. I'm sick of it, Sherlock. I want more respect. Sometimes I feel like your fucking mother!" I stood and marched right up to him.

"You never complain about it when you're on your knees, begging for-" My fist collided with his jaw and he was livid. The flame in his eyes was now a forest fire. He grabbed me by the collar of my jump and slammed me into the nearest wall, lips curled in rage.

My is heart pounding with fear, not sure of what Sherlock's going to do next. I made a move, in the hopes it would keep me alive for a little longer. "What are you going to do, hit me? Choke me? What? Look at yourself, Sherlock? Look at us! Why can't we fix this? I want to fix this, Sherlock. Please. I want to talk about this. I want to talk about us." It was choppy, and slurred due to my lack of breath. My eyes spoke nothing but hurt and fear, burning tears welling in my eyes.

Sherlock searched in my eyes for a moment and found everything. Every hurt word he spewed at me, every insult I quipped back, every forgotten dinner, every forgotten date, every forgotten birthday. He saw every problem between us, and saw how badly I wanted to fix this, but he was not going to have that. He wasn't going to admit defeat. He wasn't going to beg for forgiveness from; he's so stubborn, that one. The fury in his eyes dimmed to a vacant stare. He placed me back onto the floor and released his grip on me. I flattened my stretched out collar. I tried to wipe my eyes dry, but the tears kept flowing, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

He slowly walked down the stairs. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door and stepped out into the grey. He walked out into the world and into the arms of another. He walked straight into the arms of _The Woman_.

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><p>Review please!<p> 


	2. Chapter 1

I should have mentions that POV's will be changing throughout chapters. They are labeled.

My outline/idea, Shawn's story.

**Disclaimer: **We do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Steven Moffat.

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><p><em>John's POV<em>

"He's clearly died of asphyxiation, but trauma to the trachea and bruising are post mortem, was there anything in the windpipe?"

"No, nothing was found." The DI of the Cumbria area mentioned, leaning over the body next to me in the unfamiliar morgue. Sherlock swung open the door, returning from a lab upstairs.

"Actually, there were traces of pollen in his throat, pollen found in these parts in autumn. Autumn pollen, in the winter? Turns out, the same pollen was found around his head but nowhere else on the scene. How did it get there? The pollen was frozen in icicles formed at the base of a hill that water has been running off into a river for ages. The pollen is trapped in the ice in the winter months, thus an icicle was collected and was used to suffocate the victim. The killer then turned the body to drain the lungs and throat of the victim. Since this is not the first victim to be killed in such a manner, all you need to do is stakeout the hills to the North, around River Eden. Good day." Sherlock swiftly pulled out his cell and texted her to come and pick him up, seeing as how the job was done.

As I followed him out to the front of the hospital, I put up a hand and opened my mouth but found myself colliding with him before he turned and was staring at me with disdain.

"I know you already ate. Plus, Irene and I have plans tonight." He turned back around and pushed through the double doors. He let one drop on me but I pushed through, catching up to him at the curb.

"I can recall plenty of times when we went out even if I ate, times when we went out even if you didn't eat when we got there. I just—" I stopped, getting nervous under his intense stare.

"You just, John?"

"I miss talking to you outside of work."

"Really? I like our relationship as it stands now. We still work well together, we find clues, track down culprits and don't have to worry about the…emotional part. Less of a bother for the both of us. Well, for you, anyway. I'm hardly fazed, to say the least." My chest stung from his words. But at least he still knows me, knows how to get under my skin. That has to count for something.

"You always knew how to do that." I whispered.

"Do what?"

"Cut me with your words."

He paused and fidgeted with his cell until he finally spoke.

"I guess we could have coffee sometime, after cases and such." My heart leaped ten feet, but I had to tuck it back and stay level-headed.

"I'd like that." I smiled at him and I saw his mouth twitch a bit. It was more than enough for me.

Minutes of silence hung over us until a sleek, black Rolls Royce pulled up to the hospital and The Woman stepped out of the passenger seat, in a wine-colored dress that clung to her every curve and angle. She gave Sherlock a kiss with her crimson lips and winked at me, making my blood curdled with anger. She scooped him into the back seat of the car, veering off back towards London.

Something wasn't right. Something was nagging at me and I couldn't quite grasp it. Sherlock and Irene had been together for about 3 and half months and they were active, to say the least. I know this because Mycroft told me and, regrettably, showed me. I know I was the one who asked him to spy, but he seemed a little too happy to give me the sordid details. I've asked him to stop, since it's only been hurting me. He gave me his word, and we haven't spoken since. The pictures have stopped, but the memory lingers.

No doubt, she isn't calling him The Virgin anymore. Not that he was one after he and I became intimate, but still. The thoughts haunt me to this day. I really shouldn't be in any position to be angry; I was the one who kicked the hornet's nest, but at least I was willing to put the pieces back together. Sherlock didn't want to face our issues and just walked out, and found his clean slate. And he found it, with her.

I still want to fix us. I want to make things right. I miss him and I miss us. Most of all, I can't shake this feeling that she's hiding something. If only I knew what. It'll be a challenge, nearly an impossible task, but I have to try, I need to know. I'll keep my eyes open, I'll have to be strong for whatever I find, not knowing how tame or how horrible it is or has the potential to be.

—-

I was waiting at Mickey's Brew, a coffee shop a few blocks away from Baker Street. My knee was bouncing a bit; I was getting a little too excited about these coffee meet-ups lately, but they were just what I needed after a day at surgery or after a case.

He was 15 minutes late. But I wasn't really complaining. The fact that he's been willing to have coffee with me for the past few weeks has been great. Our friendship was picking up right where it left it, and we'd been getting along almost better than before.

We laughed about Lestrade, he listened to me chat about Mike and I listened to him harp about Mycroft. We talked about cases for awhile, until the conversations were becoming thin. We started delving into small talk. He'd tell me about his new experiments and contraptions, I'd tell him about going antiquing with Mrs. Hudson and work at Bart's. When the subject of Irene came up, I tried my best to be civil. After a few times of talking about her, he saw that I was uncomfortable but willing to listening. His eyes voiced his appreciation and he decided not to bring her up since then.

So we talk about the small stuff and enjoy our time together, pay for our coffee and go back to our lives, until another case, and until another coffee break.

I check my phone for the time again, 35 minutes late. Where could he be? I scope out the café to see if he was at another table. The normal crowd, tourists, brewers, no Sherlock. When I finish my sweep of the room and turn my head back, I find Irene sitting across from me. I nearly jumped from my chair at the sight.

"Hello, Johnny boy. How are you?" Her pearly, white teeth shone at me between her red lips.

"I'm well. Thank you." There was a long pause as she just stared at me, grinning. Her eyes were bright, but there was a splinter of something devious in them. It made me squirm in my seat.

"Um. I don't wish to be rude, but, why are you here? Sherlock was supposed-"

"I know, he was supposed to meet you for coffee, but he's not going to be able to make it." She leaned in and whispered, "He's been a bad boy and I'm not letting him out of our bed until he's learned his lesson." My stomach turned but I tried my best to keep my composure.

She pulled out a mirror and a tube of lipstick and retouched her lips, continuing without looking at me, her tone much more bitter than before. "I came to tell you he won't be coming."

Her phone went off, with that erotic text noise emanating from it before I could speak. She put away her makeup, checked it and bit the tip of her finger, mouthing the words, 'Naughty boy.' I felt my heart fall through my feet.

"Okay, well, I guess I'd better be off. Nice to see you, Ms. Adler." I stood and took a step, but her hand grabbed my wrist; my army instincts were begging me to knock her off and pin her to the ground before strangling her, but the doctor and gentleman in me wouldn't stand for it. I turned back and met her gaze, ice cold and piercing.

"Why don't we have a cup?" She wouldn't let me leave until she was satisfied. I nodded and sat back down, before she finished with, "Making him wait will rile him up for later." She wasn't going to stop, but I could get an insight on The Woman and what she could possibly be up to, so I would sit and take whatever she threw at me. The waiter came by and took our orders.

She ordered hers black and I ordered a cappuccino. The waiter left us and she laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on the bridge they made.

"So, Johnny-"

"It's just John." She stared at me sternly.

"Sorry." I ducked my eyes down and she shook it off; letting her feel dominate was the only way to get anywhere with her.

"So, _Johnny_, I've heard some things."

"What things?"

"You had Mycroft spy on us." I froze, not knowing what to do or say.

"I don't mind. I just wish you'd pay for what you find. I love putting on a show, for the right price."

"I haven't been getting anything from Mycroft for-"

"I know." She cut me off, her words on the brink of venom.

"But, since you were Sherlock's first, I think I'd be willing to give you a few freebees. You know, just a taste." My heart began to race a bit, a swell of nervousness and anxiousness engulfed me; I was fearful for what she was meant by that. She pulled some stills from her purse and put them before me. I tried my best to keep my eyes locked with hers, but her stare was chilling me to the core. When I looked down, I caught an eyeful.

They weren't blurry, window shots from CCTV, they were Polaroid's and large prints. Up close and personal. Sherlock tied up, gagged, in all kinds of compromising positions and angles. I could see every bead of sweat, every scratch and bite mark, every bit of him exposed. I shoved the photos back to her side of the table and waited for my coffee, ready to pay for it and leave.

"This one is my personal favorite," she pointed to a shot of Sherlock screaming. She chuckled low and continued, "Pictures never do justice. If only you were there to hear the noises he was-"

"Alright, enough!" I shouted, gaining some attention from the other café patrons. She grinned deviously. She wasn't backing down now, not now that she knew how badly this was hurting me to hear.

"You miss your Master, pet? Such a pity, he's on my leash now. It's what he wants. Well, it's what he begs for, I should say." When the coffee came, I took mine, tossed a few quid on the table and stood. She hopped up and quickly pressed her form against mine, keeping me from exiting. I could smell her Parisian perfume as she leaned in close to my ear and ran her nails along my other cheek.

"Don't expect too many coffee dates in the future." She gave me a little scratch of her claw and slid her fingers from my face as she turned, tossing, "Later, Johnny boy," over her shoulder as she pushed through the door and into the crowded sidewalk, lost in a sea of faces.

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><p>I hope you enjoyed it. Review if you like!<p> 


	3. Chapter 2

My idea/outline and slashyking's story.

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or it's characters. The belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Steven Moffat

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><p><em>John's POV<em>

I paced for hours, the new images and her threatening words filling my head. The words were cycling in my head; I ran them over and over again, trying to find some clue, some piece of the puzzle. What was she up to and how was I going to tell Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson came up and found me mumbling to myself in the living room, lost in my thoughts.

"Is everything alright?" When I didn't answer her, she went to make a pot of tea and found it was already done. But the tea had gone cold. She frowned and let out a heavy sigh, knowing it was best to leave me to my thoughts and that another pot of tea would go just as cold as the first. She returned to her corner of the building and left me to fester.

She was trying to distract me with those photos. She wants me to keep my distance, trying to get me to back off. She knows that I suspect something. She wouldn't try so hard to keep me away if she didn't have something to hide. Even if she was trying to _make_ it seem that she has something to hide, I still had to tell Sherlock. I picked up my phone, found his name and clicked the green button. It rang four, five, six times. No answer. I tried again, no answer.

—-

It had been three days and he wasn't answering his phone. He wasn't answering my texts either. I was will to bet that Irene was monitoring his phone. I'd have to talk to him on our next case. Who knows how long of a wait that will be? One last time, I called him, no answer. I was off from surgery and I needed some sort of distraction from my foggy mind, clouded with all this Sherlock business. When I was done puttering about in the kitchen, I decided to check out a new pub nearby. It was a jaunt from Baker Street, but I needed to get away from the dwelling for awhile. I'd only regret it later if I stayed.

I arrived and found that it was more of a club than a pub. Everyone there was younger than me, but, as long as it had a bar, I wasn't going to make a fuss. I ordered a lager and swiveled my stool to watch the people dance. The place had barely been open a few hours and it was already packed wall to wall. All the sweaty dancers grinding on each other, the pounding bass line of the music, the warm beer; I wondered how this was appealing to the young folk. When I finished my lager, I asked for a second. When I finished that one, I paid the bartender and hopped from my stool. As I turned to leave, a thin brunette woman stopped me.

"How's about a dance?" She was cute, but she was slurring her words. I could see that her eyes were glassy and she was a couple of drinks away from falling over.

"I was just leaving, but thank you for the offer. By the way, you might want to eat some bread before you go to sleep, it'll help. It really will." She stared at me vacantly for a moment before giggling.

"You're funny. But I don't sleep, darling, I dance and I dance," She got a bit too close to me and whispered, " and I fuck funny guys." With that, I swept past her and out the door. The cold air hit me and I felt a bit nauseous. I braved the chill and held my stomach all the way back to Baker Street. When I stepped inside, I half expected Sherlock to be there, as if nothing even happened. Like he would be in the kitchen with an experiment or pinning some photos over the mantel, waiting for me.

Photos. The café and Irene's photos flooded back into my mind. I walked around the flat, trying to shake the images from my head. Everywhere I looked, I thought of him, and subsequently, the photos and what she was doing to him. But the more I scaled the flat, every blemish and every corner told a different story. Ones I'd rather think about. In my wandering, I ended up in Sherlock's room. Most of his things were gone, since he moved out. The only things that remained were his skull, a few old shirts and a book or two.

I noted how spotless it was in here. Then remembered how often I cleaned this room. I didn't let it get dirty, not since the day he left. In the back of my mind, I had the tiniest sliver of hope that he'd walk through that door one of these days and never leave me again. So I kept it clean. Just in case.

I pulled out one of his shirts from the closet and sat on the bed with it. It was an old grey one. It was worn and faded. It barely fit him at the time he left and two of the buttons were missing. I told him I'd fix the shirt, but I never did. It slipped away from me in all our mess, the good and the bad. I remember the night the buttons were lost.

Sherlock and I were finished with a case, but something was still bothering him. He sat at his armchair, deep in thought, whispering about a few details of the case that were out of place. I saw how stressed he was over it and decided to get his mind off of work.

I strode over to him, slow and deliberate. He watched me make my way towards him with my lids heavy and a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I slowly perched myself in his lap and ran my hands over his chest, feeling the silk of the shirt and his taunt muscles beneath it. As he leaned forward to kiss me, I grabbed through an opening between two of the fastened buttons and ripped open the shirt, buttons flying off to a distant corner of the flat. I gave him a few bites and kisses at his newly exposed skin.

"Want to play this game, John?" He pulled my jumper over my head and torn through my thin, white undershirt in seconds, latching onto my left nipple, sucking and biting, making me groan. He rolled up on my lap, growing hard against me. The passion was burning between us as we found our way to Sherlock's room—even though it was the room we both slept in—and kept each other up for hours. When we were finally spent, we stayed awake until the sun rose. We laid there and stared at each other in the pale morning light, not speaking a word and yet our eyes spoke volumes to each other.

I was half certain the alcohol in my system was partly to blame when I ended up crying myself to sleep that night, in Sherlock's bed—our bed—clutching the grey button up. The other part of me was certain that I still couldn't face that he was gone.

—-

I woke the next morning with a slight headache and was baffled to find myself in Sherlock's room until last night's events came swirling back to me. I stretched, popped my back and made my way to the kitchen to make a cuppa. It was Saturday and I didn't have work. I stayed in the kitchen when my tea was done, leaning on the table, looking out into the empty flat. As I sipped my tea, I saw a little light blink in my periphery. I walked over to my coat on the coat rack and found that I had a new message.

_New case. Meet me at Scotland Yard at 10. –SH_

I checked the clock and saw it was 10:21.

"Shit!" I hurriedly threw my cup in the sink and whipped on my coat. I hailed a cab and got to the Yard by quarter 'til. Sherlock was checking his phone when I walked into to Lestrade's office.

His eyes quickly darted at me and started assessing why I was late, where I'd been the night before, and most importantly, what I did upon returning home. He lifted his head and eyebrows in realization and turned back to his phone, tucking it in his pocket and addressing Lestrade.

"So, a Cambridge murder? Fascinating. Can't wait to find the motive behind this one. A student with failing mark, a sexually confused adolescent, perhaps a-"

"It was a sanitation worker. But he did attend the school years before. Dropped out."

Sherlock nodded taking notes in his head. "Can we see the body?"

Lestrade waved his hand and we walked outside to catch a cab to Bart's. The question was burning at the back of my throat; I had to spit it out.

"Why haven't you been answering my phone calls?"

He turned to face me. "What phone calls?"

"You know damn well 'what phone calls.' You haven't been answering me for three days."

Sherlock sat and collected his thoughts.

"You haven't called me in three days. You haven't even texted me. Check my phone." He handed me his phone and I scrolled his Inbox and received calls, nothing.

I looked at him with horror as he took back the phone. It didn't make any sense. But, before he could say anything, they were already heading down to the morgue. Molly greeted them and showed them the body. Sherlock started checking over it, looking for the minute details. As I watched him poke and prod the corpse, I saw a red rash around his wrists and winced.

Sherlock found a small puncture wound on his scalp, he carefully took a sample to the lab upstairs. I sat, arms crossed as he ran some tests.

"You're pouting. Something is wrong." He said with his eyes locked with the microscope.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You think Irene is using me."

"Yes, Sherlock. I don't know what or why, but she is. I swear it."

"Don't you think I could tell if she was up to something?" He looked up from the microscope and cocked an eyebrow at me. I thought a moment, and responded.

"Maybe you're too close to the situation to see it. She has outwitted you before. She beat you, twice." I bit my tongue at my poor choice of words. Sherlock saw it, but didn't comment.

"It seems I am a rather good influence on her. She's put her criminal days behind her, for the most part. She has a steady job; she's working as an escort now. We're doing rather well. We're even thinking about getting a puppy." His beam was nothing short of smarmy, trying to be cute, but it wasn't working.

"I'm not joking around, Sherlock. I'm serious. She's trouble. You've only known her for a few months, you and I—how can you say you know what she's like?"

"That isn't what you were going to say." How did I think I could get that past him? I gave him a severe look, trying my hardest to show him the gravity of all of this.

"We have a history, and I know for a fact you are not yourself these days. I can tell the difference, even if I'm not as intellectually inclined as you are. I know you. You can't see she's using you. She's manipulated you, you're her pet—"

"How do you know she's using me if you don't even know what she's up to? Where is your proof, John? Your logic isn't sound. Show me. Your. Proof!" We were nose to nose now, and he was fuming, that vein in his neck was throbbing; I must have struck a nerve.

"She's got you on a leash and she's calling the shots. She told me herself."

"Stop lying, John, it won't get you anywhere." He stepped away from me, reclaiming his poise. "Korari dart. That's all I've got so far. I'll be at Cambridge, I don't think you're services will be needed. I'll text you if that changes. Goodbye, John." He shoved through the exit and left me stranded in the morgue. It might as well have been Open Ocean; our newly rekindled amity was shrinking into the distant horizon and I was left to drown.

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><p>Review if you like! We like them!<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

Thank you all for the alerts, favorites, and reviews! It means a lot. Here's the next one.

My idea/outline. Slashyking's story.

**Disclaimer: **We do not own Sherlock or any characters related to. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Steven Moffat.

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><p><em>Sherlock's POV<em>

"I'm going to take a shower, care to join me?" She looked down at me with playful eyes as I sat on the bed, bare and spent.

"I'm fine. Go ahead. I'm going to work on my blog for awhile. I'll take one after you." I leaned up and gave her a kiss. With that, she gave me a wink and strolled to the bathroom.

I pulled out my laptop but didn't turn it on right away. John's words were stuck in my mind. I couldn't rid myself of that look he gave me, how relentless it was. How unwavering he was to convince me of some sort of treachery Irene had out for me. I was fully aware that John wanted to reconcile, but this was no way of going about it. He misses me, and envies Irene. Jealousy. But that look. The severity, the staid in his eyes. It couldn't just be jealousy, and it wasn't, but my only query was why now? What had changed since our split? What was so different after all this time? It's been months, why is he just now bringing his concerns to the fore?

_'She told me…'_

I clicked on my computer and went over emails. Reviewing new cases and rejecting boring ones. My fingers twitched over the keys as the thought of checking John's blog passed my mind. He still was in charge of covering the case summaries. It was part of a separation agreement that we never really made.

Before I could stop myself, I typed in the address and looked through the write-up of our latest case. The Harwood Carpenter, as he titled it. In the comments, 'fans,' were discussing the lack of enthusiasm in the stories, saying that a soft of indifference had fallen over them, and in turn, over us. Harry even mentioned us having some sort of 'bed-death,' whatever that was and John told her to butt out. The passion was gone from his writing, it was true, and it was a blatant reminder of how much things have changed between us. I shut my computer, tucked my hands under my chin and closed my eyes, trying to go over John's words again, trying to pull some merit from them. But Irene came in from the steaming bathroom and tore me from my thoughts.

"Shall we attend the Opera tonight or have a midnight picnic atop Parliament?" She was in her sheer onyx robe, hair blown dry and eloquently perched in a bun. She sat at her mirror and started doing her makeup. She gave me eyes through the looking glass and I smiled back at her.

"How about a visit to Cambridge?"

—-

_John's POV_

No matter how what I did, I couldn't escape my brooding. I had to get through to Sherlock, even if it killed me. Coffee dates weren't happening anymore. We barely spoke during cases, only saying what needed to be said to move them along. Lestrade could feel the tension between us and it made everyone around us uncomfortable, even Anderson and Sally stopped their usual jabs and quips.

"You boys care to join us at the pub? " Lestrade asked late one night at Scotland Yard, Sherlock and I were frozen.

"I don't drink much." Sherlock said, adjusting his scarf.

"It's late." I added quietly, avoiding Sherlock's deductive stare.

"Come on, you've both been working so hard, practically non-stop. You guys look like you need to wind down. I'm buying." Lestrade crossed his arms and looked on us matter-of-factly.

I figured if I said yes, Sherlock would say no, but any chance to get out of the flat was one I'd gladly take these days.

"Yea-"

"We'll be there." My head whipped around to find Sherlock's solemn stare as he turned and headed out of the room. I smiled at Lestrade and followed Sherlock into the hallway. Following close behind him, I thought about what he was doing, what he was planning.

"I can hear you thinking, John. It's just going to the pub with Lestrade, Donovan and Dimmock."

"But you hate Dimmock, and loathe Sally. You barely get along with Lestrade. What are you actually up to?"

He stopped me with an outstretched arm across my chest.

"You lived with me for years, John. You know my methods. Why don't you figure it out for yourself?" My jaw clenched as tight as my fist, but I swallowed my anger and followed Sherlock to the pub.

We sat at our booth, sipping our beverages, chatting about cases and funny stories from the Yard. Sherlock and I didn't exchange too many words. Before we knew it, we were all pretty pissed. As the conversation trailed off, Sally and Dimmock headed out separately, having other plans for the night. Lestrade said he needed to hit the loo before he left, he slid out and walked away. Sherlock and I were left alone for a few minutes.

The alcohol was making me fuzzy, and the longer I stared at Sherlock, the harder it was to keep my words in my head.

"She's using you."

"Don't. I don't want to hear your shit, John. Stop it, alright?"

"No, listen to me. She's up to something. I know it. She hurting you, can't you see it?" I grabbed his wrist and showed him. He jerked back his arm. The floodgates opened, and there wasn't any way of going back.

"What else has she done to you? She hurts you, she showed me, she says you like it. Is that what you really want? Does she give you something I couldn't? I'll do anything to have you back. Please Sherlock, listen to me." The tears were rolling from my eyes. I was groveling at this point, but I just wanted him to believe me. I didn't want him hurt, I didn't want him to fall victim to her ways again.

"Believe me." It was the faintest whisper. We sat and stewed in my words. He threw back the last of his drink and faced me.

"John. Grow up. I don't care how much you miss me, it isn't going to happen. I have Irene and I'm happy with her and you can just jog on, alright?" He fixed up his coat and leaned into my face, real close and with a fiery hatred, he growled, "Get out of my life, John. I don't want you anymore, got it?"

Sherlock left, cool, composed and without any speck of remorse. There it was, the last nail in the coffin of our relationship. I couldn't move I could hardly put two thoughts together I was so empty, so wrecked. All I could hear was the sound of my sniveling. Lestrade turned the corner, and saw my streaming tears.

"John, what happened?" I couldn't answer him, so when I broke down and sobbed into my folded arms on the table, he sat beside me and consoled me, even having the decency to walk me back to Baker Street.

"It's over." I mumbled, over and over again as Lestrade helped me with the stairs.

"It's over, for good."

"What's over?"

"Sherlock and me. I'm done." My words were nothing short of miserable. " I'm moving on." Lestrade laid me on my bed and I told him he could just leave me here. He patted my shoulder.

"I'm here for you John, if you ever need anything." There was a beat. "You're a good man, and you deserve so much better." I nodded into my pillow. Lestrade left the flat and I was greeting into sleep's loving arms. When I woke the next morning, I was to wake up to a different world, a world without Sherlock.

_Sherlock's POV_

I was on a new case, my fourth without John. The Yard was a beehive of whispers and chatter, eyes boring in the back of my head. Work was subpar, and boredom was seeping into the cracks of my life. Irene seemed to be focusing on work and in the process, ignoring me. Everything was a vague blur, monotony taking the place of variance and the world seemed to race past me.

When I returned to Irene's and my flat, I sat down and checked John's blog again, and the last post stared me in the face like it had for two months.

_I will no longer be posting cases because Sherlock and I are not working together anymore. We have gone our separate ways. If you want to be up-to-date with Sherlock's work and if you want to contact him for work or questions, visit his blog,__The Science of Deduction__because we are no longer in touch. Thank you all for your kind words and regards and I have really enjoyed being a part of this blog. Change is inevitable, it just found me sooner than others. –JW_

I dug the meat of palms into my eyes, tired of that message leering at me all these months. The night after the pub, a box was left on the doorstep, with some of my possession I left at 221B. I was in no mood or place to investigate the box and when Irene saw it was upsetting me as it sat the living room, she locked them in a closet, saying she'd organize the contents for me so that I didn't have to.

But, John began creeping back into my mind. I saw him in the faces of strangers on the street, in windows of shops and buses. His words haunted my mind, and I kicked myself for being so obtuse.

Irene was out, and I felt the box calling me. Before long, I found myself pulling it onto my bed, opening it, and identified the contents.

The skull was the first thing that caught my eye. I had misplaced it before leaving, John must have found it. I inspected it and found a new crack over the temporal lobe; John dropped it sometime after I left. Next were my books. An encyclopedia on forensics, a Scotland Yard procedures hand guide I took off of Lestrade when I first started working for him and a book about the mind of serial killers John got me for Christmas one year. Last in the box were two of my shirts. There was a black pinstriped one and a burnt sienna one John bought for me in Paddington I had left them because they were too small for me to wear anymore. I remember every day I wore them, every date, every case.

I took the pinstriped one and laid back on the bed, I held it to my cheek and remembered a night we had together, years before.

It was a week after my morphine overdose and John was trying find things to fill the time between cases, distracting me from my boredom. I was lying on the couch in my robe, gun safely locked in the drawer. John walked over to me and crouched beside me, stroking my hair gently.

"I'm so lucky." He said, twirling a lock around his forefinger.

"Why is that?" I asked softly.

"To have a man like you, a man so dedicated to his work that when he doesn't have it, he forgets himself sometimes." He leaned over and kissed my curls before whispering, " It gives me a chance to remind you how wonderful you are." I turned into his touch and looked him in the eye. His smile was warm and welcoming. The gaping fissure inside me was filling up quickly every moment I looked into his kind eyes. I motioned to stand from the couch but John placed a firm hand on my chest and crawled onto my lap.

He pulled off his long sleeved shirt and tossed it to the floor beside us. I looked up at him and basked at the sight before me. I reached up and ran my hands over his pale chest hair. I admired every part of him, stroking whenever I could reach, slowly, taking my time. He just smiled and looked down at me, watching me play, picking up on every blemish, every freckle, every scar. I thumbed the large mark on his shoulder and felt him shiver under my touch.

"I think you need a reminder as well, John."

The memories came flooding back, our first Christmas together, or time in the country, the late nights at our favorite Chinese takeaway place, our long, sleepless nights laying side by side.

I opened my eyes and sat up, knowing Irene would be home soon. I figured I should put the box away, for a rainy day when Irene was out. I leaned over the box to put the shirt back with the other one, when I saw a patch of blue beneath the burnt sienna. I pulled at it and found it was a sleeve, I kept pulling.

It was pale blue shirt, one I had worn when John and I were away one weekend to the country. I smiled at the thought but it quickly faded upon further observations of the shirt. It was bunched up, unlike the other, folded ones. I picked at the ball of fabric and felt a hard mass in the center.

I tilted the wad of shirt until a cold, metal object slipped into my hand. The moment it did, my heart sank to the pit of my stomach and horror struck across my face. It was John's cell phone. My mind began racing. Did he leave it in the box with the other objects? Why was it wrapped in one of the shirts? I turned on the phone and found at the information was unchanged; my number was still in it. This was odd. John had deleted me from his phone, I knew that. It had to have been in here for more than the two months we weren't speaking.

A conversation with John popped into my head. I went through the phone's history and found that no calls, texts or emails were sent from this phone for just over three months. This wasn't making any sense. I went deeper. All the texts I sent to John were in this phone, but there were no replies from this phone.

_"She told me…"_ It hit me like lightning. Damn me, damn me for being such a blind fool. I closed my eyes in shame. How could I have been such a fool?

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><p>We like reviews! Hope you liked it!<p> 


	5. Chapter 4

Hello, again everyone. Here's the next part.

My idea/outline and Slashking's story

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or any characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Steven Moffat.

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><p><em>Sherlock's POV<em>

I left a note for Irene, told her I was going to check out a case. She knew I was doing more emailed cases nowadays, so it wasn't too farfetched. My heart was pounding all the way to Baker Street, the cabbie kept looking at me but I paid no mind, I was dying to see John and apologize.

I didn't have a key anymore, so I rang. No answer. I rang again, and heard Mrs. Hudson sweetly calling that she was on her way.

When she opened the door, she was a bit surprised to see me, but greeted me with a smile nevertheless.

"Sherlock, how are you, Deary?" She gave me a squeeze and moved aside to let me in.

"I'm well, Mrs. Hudson. Is John here?" Her smile fell a bit and she held her hands together over the front of her gown.

"No, sorry. He's…" She hesitated and looked down at her feet.

"He's what?"

"He's on a date." She braved a smile, but when she saw my scowl, he dropped it again.

"Where?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know." The look I gave told her I knew she was lying.

"Please, don't do this, Sherlock. It's been rough for him since you left. He's found a really nice guy—"

"Guy?" The contents of my stomach shifted violently.

"Yes, his name is Evan. He's very nice. He's one of them brain surgeons at St. Bart's. He came over last night." She was lost in her thoughts for a moment, but gained her equanimity once again.

"Anyhow, I don't want you interrupting their date, Sherlock. Please." I took one of her hands and looked her directly in the eye.

"I need to speak to him, it's very important. Where is he?"

"Can't it wait until he's back—"

"No, please." It wasn't hard to give her those eyes, the ones that meant this was serious, because it was. She sighed and shook her head, before returning to my gaze.

"He's at Angelo's." A sharp tug pulled at my insides, he took him to our usual place. It used to be, anyway.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much." I gave her a kiss on the cheek and practically ran to North Umberland Street.

When I arrived, I came in through the back. Sneaking past some of the cooks, I took off my coat and left it in Angelo's office. I found an apron and made my way through to the front of the restaurant.

The two of them were sitting at a table—our table. I hesitated, but when I saw this Evan lean into John's ear and whisper something that made him laugh, I straightened up and approached their table.

When John's eyes hit me, his expression changed rapidly and he tried to hide his face and tell Evan who I was.

"Hello gentlemen. You've already eaten, I can see. Care for dessert?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" He wanted to yell, but he kept his voice down.

"I need to speak with you." He stood and got nose to nose with me.

"I'm in the middle of a date—"

"—You're at the end of a date –"

"Shut it." I closed my mouth and let him finish.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock. I'm moved on. It's time you did the same." He turned to Evan and grabbed his coat.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." They swiftly exited the restaurant. After the busboy cleared their table, I took off the apron and gave it to him, with a tip, asking him to get my coat from Angelo's office in the back.

While I waited for him, I thought about my next move. I couldn't text him, I still wasn't sure how much or how deeply involved Irene was in monitoring our phones, I couldn't risk it. I'd have to just keep trying to meet up with him. Whenever I had a case, I had to make time to try and get through to him.

—

_John's POV_

"I can't believe him. Why would he do that?" I was pacing in the living room while Evan sat on the couch, giving me a worried stare.

"Did you two used to be friends? You worked together."

"Yeah, we used to do cases."

"Did you guys have a falling out? Do you think he wants to be friends again?"

"It's more than that." I looked at him and stopped pacing.

"I…haven't been completely honest about Sherlock and me." His brow furrowed and I rubbed the back of my neck.

"We were together."

"Like, boyfriends?"

"He didn't like that word. He used partners. But yes, we were flatmates and worked together then it…escalated."

Evan raised his brow and nodded. He stood and put his hands on my shoulders. He leaned in and gave me a quick kiss.

"I've got a surgery at 8. Sleep well, don't dwell, I don't want you getting any ulcers." I laughed and gave him a kiss back.

"Didn't know you were a poet, love. You sure you don't want to stay the night?"

"I'm sure, you said you wanted to take things slow, so, I'm respecting that."

"But," I put my hands on his chest, "what if I want you to stay the night?" His face broke out into a grin and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

"I know you want to be distracted, John. But I haven't been sleeping well and I need to be up early. If I don't have surgery the next morning, I may just stay the night tomorrow. You never know." He kissed my forehead before stepping back and zipping up his coat.

"Goodnight." I called as he moved down the stairs. When I heard the door shut, I sank into my armchair, groaning and rubbing my eyes.

Why was he doing this? We hadn't spoken in months, why was he coming around now? Maybe he's just pulling my leg. Maybe his work load hasn't been the same since we split and he needs me. He's always needed me. But he was too late.

My eyes wondered in the direction of his old room. He was seeping back into my life, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about him. I needed my confidant.

I texted Lestrade.

_You home?_

He quickly answered.

_Yea, need to talk?_

_Yes._

_Come on over._ I was already out the door.

—-

Lestrade answered the door and gave a sad smile. He stepped aside and let me in. His apartment was small and messy, but he preferred to call it cozy and lived in. He grabbed two beers from his fridge and we settled on the couch.

"He approached me today. While I was on a date."

Lestrade seemed shocked, "What happened?"

"Nothing," I took a swig of my drink, "He said he needed to talk to me and I told him to piss off."

Lestrade nodded, nursing his bottle. We sat there for a moment while he was gathering his thoughts, gathering his advice.

"What do you think he needed to talk to you about?"

"Has he been complaining at work? Complaining about not having an assistant anymore?"

Lestrade pursed his lips in thought, "No. Not that I can recall."

"Then I don't know." I put my beer down on the coffee table and rubbed my forehead, at a loss.

"Maybe he wants to apologize. Not sure why it took him so long, but maybe he misses you."

He gave a look when I rolled my eyes. I stood and began pacing again, so many emotions, so many thoughts scrambling about in my head.

"I have a question for you, John." I paused and looked at him.

"For the past two months, you've been coming over here and meeting with me at the pub. You keep complaining about him, but why? Why do you keep this up? If he hadn't shown up at your date, this meeting wouldn't have been too far up the pike. Tell me, why?"

My eyes were squeezed shut, not wanting to answer him.

"John."

Opening my eyes, I gave a broken glance and whispered, "I still love him."

"I'm glad you can admit it when you're relatively sober. I mean, whenever you get drunk, you talk about him."

"I'm not that bad about it—"

"Oh, you know you are, John. When you're sober, you complain and jab and say the worst things about him, but when you hit the bottle, you can't hold your tongue about how good he was to you, not just in bed, John. You tell me how wonderful he was to you, despite his absent-mindedness and his habits." I stood there and soaked in his words.

"I don't think you'll need me for a while."

"I don't want this coming up. Please, don't talk about this with anyone." He nodded and put down his drink. He stood and grabbed my coat from the hook and helped me on with it.

"Go home and get some sleep. Got work in the morning?"

"Yeah." He opened the door and leaned on the frame after I stepped on the porch.

"You should talk to him, John. But what do I know; I'm just your drunken therapist." We laughed and I told him goodnight and walked back to Baker Street, the bitter cold sobering me up on the way back.

I wanted to talk to him, so badly, but I remembered Evan and how much I really liked him. We had potential to be good together. I wanted to give him more time. When my head hit the pillow back at 221B, I found a sweet escape from the stress of the day.

_Sherlock's POV_

On a case, but I couldn't concentrate on it. Sally was chattering in my ear about my mood and I barked at her to go scrub Anderson's floors some more. She huffed and stormed off the scene.

Lestrade came over and started talking to me.

"Something's the matter."

"Why would you say that?" I took out my magnifying glass and inspected the victim's shoes.

"Sally got a tongue lashing."

"I always yell at Sergeant Donovan. Why would that insinuate a bad mood?"

"I've never see you yell at her like that. Plus, you we're clenching your jaw and your fists. That vein in your neck was throbbing too."

I stood and turned to him hastily. "What are you getting at, Lestrade?"

"Meet me at the pub tonight. You'll be glad you did." He strolled over to the police car with a secret on his tongue.

The cogs in my head starting turning again, but not from the case.

—-

He kept me waiting for 20 minutes. When he finally arrived, he slapped my arm and smiled.

"What's your poison?"

"I'm not drinking."

"Well I am." He went to the bar and ordered his drink. He came back and sat across from me, taking a sip before folding his arms over the table, giving me a look.

"Go ahead."

"You first, Sherlock. I know you want to vent. Go right ahead." I took a deep breath and gathered my words.

"It's about John."

"I could've guessed." I gave a look and he held up his hands in defense. I continued.

"John won't listen to me."

Lestrade waved one of his hands a bit, "And?"

"And, I need to talk to him."

"Why do you think he doesn't want to talk to you?" Lestrade knew something, but wanted to play this out, like a game. He's just as stubborn as I am when he wants to be.

"He has a new…guy. He's moved on." He started chuckling to himself when I finished.

"What are you sniggering about?"

"You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" I was losing my temper with him. He took a large gulp of his beer and sighed in gratification.

"He still loves you." I narrowed my eyes, skeptical of his assertion.

"How would you know? He doesn't work with us anymore."

"He still talks to me." I was intrigued.

"Why?"

"After you left him, that night in the bar, he said he was through with you, for good," I cringed at the memory of that night, but he continued on just the same, "Since then, he's been coming to me, ranting and raving about you. He didn't want to do it to Evan, so he let off steam with me. We'd sit right here and talk about you. It started out as a weekly ritual to vent about you. I told him about work he told me about all the times you mistreated him."

He took another drink. "But the more he drank, the less bitter his words became. He talked about you being so great, so intelligent and loving, when you wanted to be."

"You were a pain at times, but John was willing to work things out, but you didn't want to, or, at least, you _seemed_ like you didn't want to fix things."

"If he feels that way, why won't he speak to me?" Lestrade shrugged a bit.

"He's still bitter. He's got a new guy, as you said and as I already knew. You have to show him you care, if that's what you're after. I know he still loves you, but do you still love him?" It wasn't a hard answer, I did. But I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud, I rarely said it, but I always tried to make sure John knew. I don't even tell Irene I love her. She intrigued me, but John. I needed John. He was my other half and I should have realized it before.

I nodded to let him know I did. He gave a weak, half-smile and took another sip of his drink.

"Go to him, Sherlock. Show him. He's dying inside. Go fix your broken solider." He put his fee on the table and left me alone in the crowded pub.

I would go to him, but not now. I couldn't stray from my schedule too far, or Irene would suspect. So I returned home and showered to wash away the smell of the pub. Irene was already out for work by the time I returned to the flat so I just laid on the bed, creating my plan, my next move, like a game of chess. If I made one wrong move, it was over.

I couldn't say how long I laid there, but John was the last thought that passed my mind before I finally drifted to sleep.

—-

_I'll be home around 11. Lestrade's case, then a sent one. –SH_

_I'll be putting on my face when you get home. Have fun. x_

Lying was easy, especially when Irene wasn't paying much mind to me these days. I needed every moment I could gather to get through to John.

It was Tuesday, he was working until 8 or so. It was half past 4; I had plenty of time to gather my words before he came home. I visited the yard the Yard briefly, covering my bases. The case was wrapping up as I fixed my coat and scarf. Lestrade thanked me for my time, and shuffled his feet. I gave him the green light to ask.

"You talked to him yet?"

"Tonight."

He nodded and gave an awkward but friendly pat on the shoulder and wished me luck. I checked my phone, it was 6. I was getting anxious. Before I knew it, I was at 221B. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and greeted me with a hug, but her smile was less than convincing.

"He's at work."

"I know. I was hoping you'd let me wait for him, upstairs."

"He told me about the restaurant. He says he doesn't want to see you."

I took her shoulders in my hands and gave her my most sincere look, "Mrs. Hudson. I have to talk to him. I need to get through to him. I came to…apologize."

She smiled, and I released her from my grasp. She turned and entered the flat again, I followed her and quickly mounted the stairs. It felt strange being back here; it was much less cluttered due to the lack of my things.

I sat in the armchair that used to be mine, thinking of what to say, what to do. I sat and thought, waiting to hear that front door open and his feet on the stairs.

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><p>Hope you enjoyed it!<p> 


	6. Chapter 5

Hello, all. This is the next part

My idea/outline. Slashyking's story.

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or it's characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Steven Moffat.

* * *

><p><em>John's POV<em>

Today was a pretty good day. Evan stayed over last night, no one died on me at work, and I went to lunch with Evan which made up for the interrupted dinner the other night. When I got home, I mounted the stairs and saw a light was on. I didn't remember leaving it on before I left.

Slowly, I climbed the stairs. I turned my head around the corner and saw that Sherlock was standing with his back to the door, mumbling to himself.

"How did you get in here?" I asked, striding up to him and spinning him around. His face lit up when he saw me.

"Mrs. Hudson let me in."

"Why would she do that? She knows I don't want to see you." He reached out and I stepped back. His face fell and it tugged at me, to my surprise.

"Sit down, John, we need to talk."

"I need a cup of tea—" Sherlock sprinted to the kitchen and brought me a hot cup of tea. I sat down and took the cup and saucer from him.

"Did Mrs. Hudson make this?"

"No." He held his hands behind his back, smiling down at me. I took a sip with caution and found that it was pretty good. It wasn't mine or Mrs. Hudson's, that much was apparent, but it was still good.

I put the cuppa on the table in front of me and Sherlock took a deep breath. His face was nothing short of complicated, so many thoughts scattering across his features. I sat, wondering what he had to say. He finally opened his mouth and what came out baffled me.

"I'm sorry, John." He closed his eyes before continuing.

"You were right. You were right all along. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it." My heart wanted to believe him, but I wasn't fully convinced.

"What was I right about?"

"She's been lying to me, keeping me in the dark, John." He opened his eyes and I saw so much hurt dwelling in them. "What all was put in the box you left at my door?"

"Your skull. Some books, and a few of your old shirts."

"Which shirts?"

"A brown one, a blue one and a pinstriped one, why?"

"Did you fold them all, before putting them in the box?"

"Of course I did, didn't you see them? Or did you just shove the box under your bed?"

"No, I went through the box the other day. Only two of the shirts were folded. The blue one was crumpled."

"What is your point, Sherlock? What does this have to do with anything?"

"I found your phone in it." I scoffed at him and pulled out my phone.

"My phone's right here, Sherlock. It—" He took the phone from my hand and inspected it.

"She's good. She made it look so convincing."

"Stop this, Sherlock it isn't—"

"She knows I still love you." I froze and looked into his gaze. There was no sarcasm, no backing down, he stared back at me, unrelenting honesty in his eyes.

"And she knows you still love me. Otherwise, she wouldn't have gone through the trouble of switching your phone."

"How did she—" I already knew the answer. I touched my cheek, remembering her Parisian perfume and how close she got to me. She was good.

"At the coffee shop. The day you were…tied up." Saying it brought back bad memories of that day.

"You said she showed you as well. Photos, I'm guessing?"

"Yes." Sherlock sat on the couch beside me.

"I was only doing what she wanted to make her happy. I thought that making her happy would be enough to make me happy. But, it hasn't been so."

The more he spoke, the more my anger and frustration seemed to diminish. But I was still confused about what exactly was going on.

"So, why did she take my phone?"

"I never got any of your texts or calls for nearly 4 months. But you did get mine when they were about work. I've come to the conclusion that she was relaying the texts between us, deleting yours and sending mine. In the new phone, she put one of her numbers in under my name, you could never tell that anything was different."

"She must have a second phone, one with the number I know as hers, and the one that is the relay between yours and mine, the number I thought was yours and the number you thought was mine. So that whenever I texted you for work, she would see it and send it to you, and it would seem that I had been the one to text it. In making us bicker over trivial matters she was pitting us against each other. Her intention all along. She manipulated me, John. Just like you said. And I apologize. I never meant for this to happen."

He reached over and ran a thumb over the scar Irene left me with, and I was stunned at myself when I didn't pull away.

"But that night in the bar…you said such…awful things to me."

"I was drunk, John. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it. You know me. I never want to admit when I'm wrong," he shook his head and nearly choked on his next words, "The reason I left in the first place. I couldn't face our problems, because I would be facing my faults. The faults that were hurting you. I couldn't stand hurting you anymore." The sound of his voice cracking like that was breaking my heart. I could feel tears rolling down my face. I closed my eyes and felt his freehand cup my other cheek.

"I've missed you so much, John." I missed him too, and the tears came even faster. "I forgot how much I needed you by my side." I didn't have to open my eyes to know what was going to happen next. Our lips met and everything else was white noise. He sucked at my lower lips and I opened wider the tastes of tea, my tears and Sherlock mixing and colliding on my tongue.

My heart was pounding in my ears as Sherlock laid me down on my back. His mouth was dizzying slow, but his hands were quick and greedy, wrenching off my jumper.

"Sherlock," I hiccoughed against his cheek, pushing off his coat. He murmured a response but it was lost his my hair as he rubbed a hand over my groin.

Bucking into his touch, I tried to form words, but Sherlock's palming was making me short of breath. I missed this, I missed his touch, his smell. He sucked at my neck and worked me through my jeans. I loved how he could make me melt like this.

In the rush, I hadn't seen my jeans come off, but they had along with his. He sat up for a moment and took me in, flushed and my breath hitching. "You're so beautiful." His voice was low, wavering slightly, the ardor flowing through him. I was so lost in his gaze, I didn't hear myself moan when he rolled against me. The desire that shook through him was pouring into me, filling me.

He rocked against me, over and over, drawing more sounds from me. When I thought I couldn't be more turned on, he leaned down and latched onto my scar. His teeth ignited a fire under my skin and lightning skated across my nerves. If I was in my right mind, I'd be mortified at the noises I was making. But the louder I got, the fiercer Sherlock became.

He reached down and stripped me of my shorts. Soon after, his met mine on the floor. I saw him flushed against me and it was driving me mad. "I want you, Sherlock. Now."

"Condom?" He whispered gruffly. One of my hands was stuck in the pile of clothes beside the couch, groping for my wallet. I moved to give it to him but he just flashed his teeth at me before giving me another kiss.

"Put it on me." My eyes lit up, a surge of lust belting through me like a gunshot. I ripped it open and rolled the condom over him, licked my palm and slicked it with a few tugs. He looked at me for a signal and I gave it to him. Aligned and prepped, he pushed inside me. He built up a rhythm, a steady stick and pull, but I wanted him deeper.

I pulled him down with my legs around his waist, and he took the hint. Deeper and faster, he bending into me, whispering my name as a mantra, a prayer. My skin was damp from sweat and my muscles tweaked and jerked. I gripped onto him, pulling him as close to me as I could, not wanting to let go. I groaned that I was close and his hand wedged between us. His wan fingers found their way around my shaft, pulling in time with his thrusts.

Words were coming out of my mouth, but I couldn't tell what they were. My hands were caught up in his curls and as I reached my peak, I tugged hard, making him moan into his release, mindful not to wake Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

He collapsed atop me as we caught our breath. Sherlock sat up and looked down at me, wet and panting, a sight he hadn't seen in nearly half a year. I could feel his stare and opened my eyes to meet it. His hair was ruffled, a bit of it sticking to his forehead, smiling at me. He looked so perfect.

I felt the cold air sweep in and reality struck me. Evan. Irene. Mrs. Hudson. Everything. I started to panic.

"What are we going to do, Sherlock?" He pulled off the used condom, stood and left the room momentarily before returning with a towel. He wiped himself down and handed it off to me.

"The best we can. We'll take it slow. See if we can work our way back to what we had."

"You mean an affair? I don't know if I could."

"That's the beauty of it. If it doesn't work out, we have our respective partners. And we can have our friendship again." I thought about Irene and what she did to keep us apart.

"We can't start out as friends right away, it'll seem suspicious." I paused, wiping down my abdomen.

"I'll be willing to take any consequences this affair might bring us, if it means I can make it up to you." His eyes were big and pleading.

"Okay. But how are we going to keep in touch? We can't text." Sherlock sat and thought when an idea struck me.

"Does Irene check your laptop, emails and such?"

"No, she's really good about not looking at my computer. She'll look at my phone day and night, but she knows my laptop is my work and my work is sacred to me. She never touches it."

"We could email each other."

"It would have to look like cases." I saw a light bulb click on in his head.

"The Blind Banker."

"What about it?"

"We'll make a code. You'll email me, under a different name. Email about cases and within the details, we'll have a number code. It's so simple."

"What book should we use?" He pondered and smiled when he had something.

"I could always use an updated Scotland Yard handbook. How about I pick one up for you as well?" I smiled as he nudged me with his elbow; it had been so long since I'd seen him this happy, or this playful.

"Sounds wonderful." I gave him a kiss and he checked his phone.

"Irene expects me home at 11, it's twenty past 10."

"What are you going to do about…" I gestured to his hair and body. He ruffled his hair but it didn't help.

"If I showered here, she'd know. If I didn't shower, she'd smell the sex on me." He stewed in his mind, hands under his chin.

"I could text her I'm running late. She's getting ready for work. She'd be too preoccupied to wonder why." He pulled out his phone from the pile and texted her.

_Stuck in Cardiff. Be home later. See you in the morning. –SH_

His phone chimed a minute later.

_Okay, don't get killed. Be a good boy. See you tomorrow. x_

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and sat next to me, both of us bare and content. I grabbed my pair of shorts and slipped into them. Sherlock stood and dressed in front of me, leisurely, giving me a different kind of show. It made me feel amazing, to be under his eyes again without any scorn or hate. To be the one he wanted.

This game was going to be fun.

* * *

><p><em>Hope you enjoyed it!<em>


	7. Chapter 6

Right, so. I accidently uploaded the wrong chapter. I knew it was going to happen at some point. This is the actual Chapter 6.

My outline/idea. Slashyking's story

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or its characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Steven Moffat.

* * *

><p><em>John's POV<em>

Our affair was a little over a month old and things were going well. The email system was working, and somewhere along the line, I started helping Sherlock with cases again. I wasn't writing about it on my blog, and as far as anyone—beside Lestrade—was concerned, we weren't speaking. He'd consult me about cases in our afterglow, and had our own little world.

Even if I didn't write up the cases in my blog, I put them in a journal and kept it in the living room, under a couch cushion. I couldn't help myself, I missed it. Sherlock didn't know I was doing it, but I thought I'd surprise him with it when it was completely filled.

Evan was coming over for dinner tonight. I cooked up some beef stew and cornbread, making the flat nice and warm, and aromatic. Evan rang up and Mrs. Hudson let him in. He came up the stairs with a rose.

"Hello, Evan. Is that for me?" He leaned in and gave me a kiss, placing it in my free hand, my other one wielding a large wooden spoon.

"Of course. The stew smells heavenly."

"Thank you, go make yourself at home, it won't be ready for about 15 more minutes, I have to keep an eye on the cornbread. Go, put your feet up, stay awhile." It was the first time I had made dinner for him. Mrs. Hudson made it the last time he came over for dinner and I felt really good about it.

We wondered around the living room, not saying much to my while I was puttering about in the kitchen. The food was cooked and put in bowls. "Food's ready." I said, seating myself at the table. He came in and we ate with staggered conversation. Something was on his mind that wasn't there before.

"Anything wrong, is it too tough? I knew I cooked it too long."

"No, just, work. It's on my mind. I'm sorry." He waved his hand at nothing and kept eating, "The stew is wonderful. Thank you." I gave him a smile but he didn't look at me.

The meal went by and when I finished the dishes, Evan was putting on his coat.

"I thought you were going to stay? I didn't make dessert, but I thought we could…you know…make our own." He gave me a blank stare, and replied.

"I got a page, I've got to head back to the hospital." He gave me a kiss on the forehead and hurried down the stairs, I winced as the front door slammed shut. I figured a patient was on his mind over dinner, he probably thought something was going to happen and when it did, he regretted not already being at the hospital. I felt bad, but I didn't know. He didn't have to come to dinner if he was worried about his patient.

I felt bad about Evan, but the thought of Sherlock coming over the next morning was making me feel better. It was my day off and Sherlock wanted to spend the most of the day in bed with me.

Still, the Evan thing wasn't sitting well with me. I shook it off and watched some telly before going to bed, wanting all the energy I could get for tomorrow.

—-

_Sherlock's POV_

"It was a bad night, I'm guessing?" Irene rolled off of me and groaned a bit.

"Yeah, sorry, he was boring, and he snored. He was terrible at role-playing too. I still got paid so, I'm not going to complain." She slid under the covers and closed her eyes.

"What do you have planned for the day?" She asked, drifting off to sleep.

"Manchester, twin kidnapping."

"Tell me how it goes."

"I will." I gave her a peck on the shoulder and swung my legs out off the bed, walking to the shower to get ready for my day with John.

She was fast asleep when I finished my shower and dressed. My face pulled into a frown when I looked on her sleeping face as I tied my shoes. She was becoming so distant lately and I really felt like breaking it off. But then I remembered how spiteful she can be. If she already went through all the trouble to keep us apart, imagine what she could do if I were to leave her for him.

I put it at the back of my mind and didn't worry, the affair was working out just fine and as it went on, it was giving me plenty of time to figure out how to break the news to her and keep her from taking revenge.

I arrived, and John was waiting outside for me. "Hello." I greeted, straight faced and nonchalant.

"Hello." He opened the door and we casually strolled up the stairs to the bedroom. We kept it quiet and slow, taking our time. We undressed, exploring and admiring the other until John began to fuss. I loved seeing him restless, but I couldn't deny him when he gave me those big brown eyes.

John was on top, riding me and being his beautiful self. His brow was creased, his mouth ajar, he glistened in the daylight streaming in the window. I gripped his hips and driving upward into him, making him sigh, breathy and eager.

"I'm close." He sputtered, taunt muscles shuddering. I pushed him back until his hands were flat on the bed, quickening my pace. I wrapped my hand around him and pumped until he reached his threshold, spilling over himself and muttering a few curses. His face upon release was enough for me, and I hit my climax. When I finished, John slid down next to me, head on my chest.

"God, you're good." He chuckled, rubbing hand down my arm. I leaned down and buried my nose in his damp locks, taking in his scent.

"You're not so bad yourself, darling." John sat up and gave me a good once over.

"Like what you see?" I asked, tucking a hand behind my head and laying the other on my stomach.

"Yes. I do. Are you hungry? I'm starved."

"I could eat." I said casually. He looked so good, I couldn't help reaching up and running a finger down John's chest and abdomen, curling it into the hair at the end of its journey.

"I'll go out and get some takeaway. Or pick something up from Speedy's downstairs if you don't want to wait too long."

"Whatever you're hungry for, John. I'm fine with either."

"I'm in a takeaway mood. I'll be back." He gave me a lingering kiss before dressing and heading out.

While he was out, I started dozing off. My body was completely relaxed, my mind less cluttered. This felt right, this felt like where I was supposed to be.

John came back and I perked up, actually feeling a bit peckish. We had a little picnic on the bed and enjoyed each other's company. It was very comfortable; we talked about Mycroft and the Yard, and when Bart's came up, John deflated a bit.

I put down my Lo Mein and gave him a concerned glance, "What's wrong at Bart's?"

John chewed and swallowed his mouthful and shook his head, "Evan's been acting weird. I think it's about a patient. He was distracted at dinner, and he got a page. I think he didn't want to leave to come to dinner, but he did to make me happy and now he regrets it. But, I still need to talk to him before I assume. It could be anything."

I nodded, and when I saw he was still a bit sad, I leaned over and gave him a kiss. He opened his lips and our flavors mingled. He pulled away and swiped some noodles from my carton.

"Ha. I'm a Chinese food Ninja."

"Isn't that a bit oxymoronic, John?" He stopped slurping his stolen goods long enough to understand what just happened and laughed, making me laugh in the process.

When we finished our meal, we showered; John took his time washing my hair, massaging my scalp. He loved having his hands in my locks, even when wet.

We were clean, fed and at ease. I checked my phone and saw the time, 1 o'clock. I should make an appearance at Scotland Yard, just to make sure I wasn't missing out on anything.

"I'm gonna go. See if there's anything to report at the Yard."

"Say hi to Lestrade for me. He's still tight lipped, right?"

"Yes, John, he's been very good at keeping us a secret. Don't worry." I looked him in the eyes, smiled and gave him a long, breathtaking kiss. He practically swooned in my arms.

"I had a wonderful time today. You free Wednesday?"

He nodded vigorously and gave me a quick peck, before pushing me down the stairs.

"Go save the world."

I walked out of 221B feeling refreshed and ready to take on anything.

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><p><em>Hope you liked it!<em>


	8. Chapter 7

Well, some of you have read this one when I posted it by accident. Perhaps refresh your memory?

My idea/outline. Shashyking's story.

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or its characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Stephen Moffat.

* * *

><p><em>John's POV<em>

I was cleaning up the flat before heading out. Monday night was the night Evan and I usually go to the pub. He's usually booked on weekends with surgeries, he likes to unwind and I'm happy to listen to him. In my cleaning, I found my journal on the mantelpiece. I didn't remember leaving it there. When I couldn't recall why it was there, I put it back under the couch cushion and headed out.

I saw him outside the pub, sulking a bit. We hugged, shared a kiss and went inside to escape the blistering wind. We sat at the bar and Evan ordered two pints for us. I thanked him and opened my mouth to speak.

"So, what's on your mind?" He practically chugged down his whole pint before I could finish; I guessed quite a few things by his actions. But he wasn't talking, so we just sat and drank. His gaze into his glass was teeming with irritation, and the more we drank, the worse it became. Maybe he lost that patient on Saturday.

I decided to ask. "Evan…did you lose your patient on Saturday? Is that what's wrong?"

He threw back his fifth brew and slammed the glass onto the bar. His head spun and his venomous stare bit into me, paralyzing me.

"When were you going to tell me? Huh? When?" There was a pain in his stare, like my stomach was pierced with a massive ice pick and my world was draining around me.

"I-I…" I couldn't form words; instead, I nursed my beer and tried to avoid his glare.

"You don't have to lie to me, John." He started poking me in the chest. Over and over, with every word.

"Just say it, okay? Just admit it—"

"Sherlock and I are fucking, alright?" People in the bar were staring as his eyes doubled in size and went white as a sheet.

"What? I wasn't…I was talking about the journal. I read some it the other night. You're working with him again." He ran his hand through his hair and started fuming. "And you're shagging him? Great, that's bloody fantastic. Where do the lies stop, John? Where?"

"Evan, I, I can explain." My guilt was swirling with the alcohol in my system and I was too stunned to even cry or scream, I only whimpered pathetically.

"Oh, can you? Can you explain? No, no more lies. I thought I could be okay with you working with him again but this," he waved his hand at me in disgust, "This is unforgiveable."

"Please, it's not…I," There wasn't anything I could say. The only thing that came to my mind was that I wanted to be with Sherlock. I couldn't bring myself to say it, so all I said was, "I'm sorry."

"I'm _so_ glad you're sorry. How long have you guys been fucking?"

"A month—"

"Perfect. Just—John, you and me, we're done. We're over."

"Evan. I'm really sorry." I reached out for him and he smacked me away, pointing a finger in my face.

"No, John. Just fuck off!" He grabbed his coat and stamped out of the pub. I was completely numb, I couldn't move, or think. I was baffled by how fast this happened. How it all came shattering down. I opened my mouth and it all got smashed to pieces.

I ordered another beer and tried to drown myself it in. My remorse grew as the night went on. And somehow I found myself at Sherlock's stoop.

—-

_Sherlock's POV_

I was checking my website, going over emails and seeing if John had a message for me. Irene had been at work for less than half an hour when a rapping came at the door. I wasn't expecting anyone and Irene didn't say anything about anyone coming over. Something was wrong. I answered it and found John swaying with a very long face, reeking of smoke and ale.

"Evan knows?" He nodded and wiped his nose. I wasn't sure if it was from crying or from the cold.

"Come in." I took his arm over my shoulder and brought him into the sitting room. I sat on the couch and John laid down between my legs, resting his head on my chest.

"How did he find out?" He was listening to me breath. I felt him holding back. I rubbed his back, whispering, "Tell me, John."

He mumbled an answer. I didn't catch it.

"What?"

"It was a surprise."

"What was a surprise?"

"He found my…journal. I couldn't help it, Sherlock. I couldn't stay away. I missed it."

"Missed what, John, you're not making any sense."

"I was writing up the cases I was helping you with. When I finished it, I was going to give it to you as…as a gift." He sounded so sorrowful.

"So, how did find out about us? A journal doesn't necessarily imply an affair. Unless you wrote up our activities between cases and put them in the journal as well."

"No. I was all turned around. He was angry and when he started accusing me, I thought it was about us. But it was just about us working together again. I couldn't hold my tongue. I thought he knew."

"A healthy assumption." John sighed heavily and nuzzled into me.

"This was bound to happen." John leaned up and took my face in his hands, giving me slapdash kisses over my lips, chin and eyelids.

"Come on, Sherlock. Come back to me, come back to Baker Street." I smiled at his words, no matter how much they stunk of spirits. But I couldn't give him his wish right away.

"I still haven't figured out how to get out of this thing with Irene without some sort of retaliation. Give me time, John. Okay?" He rested his head back down and started to drift into unconsciousness. I thought about Irene coming home from work at 8.

"If you stay, I'm going to have to wake you early and call a cab for you. What time do you have work?"

"Nine."

"I'll get you up in time to get ready back at the flat." He nodded. Before he fell victim to sleep, I whispered to him, "I'll be home soon enough, darling. Just give me time." I set my alarm and wrapped my arms around him, joining him in slumber.

—-

6:30 and my phone sounded. I shut it off and looked down at John's sleeping face. I couldn't resist smiling at the sight. Before I shook him awake, I pressed my lips on his temple.

"Wake up, John. You need to get ready for work."

"I don't want to." I started tickling him and he moaned in dismay.

"No, don't. I've got a headache."

"I'll get some ibuprofen." He sat up, letting me stand and go to the bathroom. When I came back, he was standing, groggy and hair sticking up a bit. I slicked it down for him while he dry-swallowed the pills I gave him.

"Have a good day at work. Try not to puke on your patients." He mocked laughed at me and zipped up his jacket. I gave him a kiss and walked him outside, hailing him a cab and giving him some fair for it.

The cab sped away and I went inside. I cleaned up the sitting room and got ready for checking out a double homicide in a room locked from the inside Lestrade texted to me moments ago. My mind shifted from partner-mode, to work-mode and I was out the door before Irene was home.

—-

_John's POV_

I gave the cabbie the money Sherlock gave me and made my way up the stairs. I didn't hear Mrs. Hudson and figured she was out to the market or visiting her niece.

I needed to shower, but I wanted a cup of tea. I could afford being late, I might even call in sick. My headache wasn't getting better with the tea.

My phone went off. I put my cup and saucer in the sink and pulled my cell from out jacket pocket. It was a text. I thought it would be Evan, wanting to make up. But it wasn't, it wasn't even Lestrade.

_You've been a naughty boy, John. –JM_

I couldn't dial Scotland Yard fast enough. There was a loud smacking sound and then blackness.

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><p><em>Only three more left!<em>


	9. Chapter 8

My idea/outline. Shashyking's story.

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or its characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Stephen Moffat.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock's POV<em>

"Ambidextrous. That explains the inconsistency with the methods. The scratches and scuff makes on the shoes show the struggle, against the wall. It was the brother."

"How do you know it was the brother?"

"Simple, the financial situation. Life insurance and all, he wanted his brother's wife and the money he had to give to her. Simple." Lestrade nodded, giving me a pat on the shoulder.

"Alright then. Good Job, Sherlock."

"I would have had it figured out earlier but, I'm a bit distracted."

"Problems with the…affair?"

"Evan broke up with him, he stayed at my place last night and I think Irene knows."

He was going to respond when a silver Mazda pulled up to the scene. A surge of panic raced from my head to my gut, any thoughts I had before were ripped from me. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. The door opened and Mycroft stepped out, a painful scowl tugging at his features. My heart was picking up pace as I jogged over to him.

"Get in the car. I don't care if you're not done, it can wait."

"I'm done, Mycroft. What's the matter?" He didn't answer me as he pushed me into the back seat of the car. We sat in silence for a few moments as the car sped off from the scene.

He turned to me and spoke, "Don't get how you get, Sherlock."

"Just tell me, Mycroft." He didn't mince words.

"John's been abducted. We believe it is Moriarty."

"It's been a while; he hasn't made a move in quite some time. I suppose-" I paused, trying to gather a reason for his sudden reappearance in my life, why he'd take John. I shook my head, trying not to get too emotional, turning to Mycroft.

"Anything you can give me? Has he called or texted? Anything?"

"He left a message, for you." He pulled out a phone from his pocket. He handed it me and when I unlocked it, I listened to the message it held.

"_Hello, sexy. Haven't spoken in awhile. You never call. But how can I blame you, you have so much on your hands these days. Guess you heard the news. Yes, I've got your Johnny boy. You want him back? You have to play a little game for me first if you want to find him. Tomorrow morning, you'll get your clues. You'll have 12 hours to find your boy once they're sent. Good luck, Sherlock Holmes. He's counting on you."_

My hand dropped into my lap, the mobile still in it. He had John, he had him and I could only imagine what he's done to him. What he was doing to him. The sight of John in pain—a sight I'd never want to see again—came into my mind's eye. The image of him with fear in his eyes, the scream of his voice, the tremble of his form flashed before me, draining me into a hallow corner of my mind; my own fear. It was overwhelming me, and I couldn't hold back tell-tale, external responses.

Mycroft saw that I was shaking. He hesitantly put an arm around me, pulling me into an embrace. I thought I could be brave, I thought I could detach myself from this feeling but when Mycroft spoke, saying, "We'll get him back. It's alright," I broke.

The tears came, burning and bitter. I sat in the back of that car and cried on my brother's shoulder. I felt so weak because of it. The thought of succumbing to my fear and no being able to find John ripped a few groaning sobs from my chest. The car pulled to a stop and I released Mycroft, drying my eyes and saw that the car was in front of Mycroft's home.

I felt my brow furrow in confusion. "Why are we here?"

"You're staying with me for the night, I want to be there when the first message arrives, I need to know if we do have anything done, any preventative measures we need to take. Make sure the phone isn't a bomb, like last time." I nodded, understanding the concern.

"What you're doing, Mycroft, I—"

"Don't thank me yet, little brother," his face held such a grim expression, with the faintest glimmer of hope, "we've barely begun."

We entered the house and I found my way to the living room. Mycroft put on a fire and we had a meal in silence. I kept thinking about John and what he was going through at this moment. Thought of what Moriarty was putting him through.

Mycroft made up a room for me and I tried to settle in the foreign quarters. Eventually, my bleak thoughts wrapped me in a dark cocoon, dark figures looming in my thoughts as sleep fought me.

The phone sat on the table in front of me. After I finished my tea, I perched myself on the couch, still as stone, watching it. Waiting.

Mycroft was standing by checking his watch over and over again, trying to distract himself from his uncertainty about the situation.

The clock on the mantel tolled 11 and as the last chime sounded, the phone rang its own tune. Mycroft held his breath. I reached out and unlocked the phone and saw the images it bared.

A severed thumb, a circus tent, a motorcycle and a ferret. I waved a hand to say that the phone was fine; Mycroft gave a sigh of relief. Quickly he dialed for the car to come around and take him to his office.

"I'm sure you can manage, let me know if you need anything. And Sherlock?"

I looked up from the images and met my brother's eyes. "Yes?"

"Bring him back, for your sake." His voice was grave and wavered a bit, still a bit nervous about what was to ensue. I gave an affirmative nod and watched him step out the door. I focused back onto the images, flipping through them and going over them. My mind began to work on them, pulling out their meaning.

I hurriedly ran outside and hailed a cab, I needed something, something very particular; a journal.

When I reached 221B, I knocked hastily. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, eyes red and handkerchief in hand.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson, I need to come in. I'm sure you've heard the news." She let out a sob, before apologising. I was in a hurry, but Mrs. Hudson deserved a few moments of my time.

"I'm going to find him, Mrs. Hudson. That's why I need to come up. I need something of his in order to find him." He looked on me with sympathetic eyes and braved a smile. I gave her a warm embrace before making my way up to the stairs.

Not sure of where he put the journal, I went through the bookshelf, but found nothing. I searched his room, nothing. I searched my old room, nothing. Standing in the living room, I scoped. I studied the room until I saw a corner of something sticking out from under a sofa cushion. I stepped over and retrieved it, finding it was John's journal. Flipping through the cases, I looked for the first clue. Severed thumb. But no such luck.

I found John's laptop and looked up the old cases that were archived. Scrolling through for a few minutes, I found it. The Engineer's Thumb, as John had titled it. Fairly easy clue, to say the least. Next was the tent. I thought I'd search the archives, but no case involved a circus tent, when it dawned on me. I grabbed the journal and flipped through, finding a case involving an escaped circus lion. The Veiled Lodger. These clues were so simple, why would Jim even bother?

The journal also had a case about a woman and her motorcycle, The Solitary Cyclist. And lastly, the ferret. I went back onto the blog and found one of the first cases John and I had done after becoming intimate. The Crooked Man, that involved a pet ferret. I found these cases so quickly but was stuck on their significance. These were just ordinary cases, Jim had nothing to do with them. Why were they important? Why did he choose these cases?

Mounting my old armchair, I sat, pondering every detail of the cases, every person involved, every suspect, every possible suspect, every victim. Nothing. This wasn't making any sense. I checked my phone, it was 2, ten hours left. I had plenty of time.

John was creeping back into my head and I was losing concentration. I went to the kitchen and make a cuppa, trying to get my mind off of my fear and my emotions, trying to focus on the clues. When I finished the drink, I decided to read through all four write-ups. I read through them, reading ever word, over and over again, looking for clues within them, but nothing was coming to mind. Why these four cases?

They were obviously cases I'd done with John since encountering Jim. He'd been watching this whole time. There were cases that weren't even on John's blog, somehow he knew about them. Perhaps he had an inside eye. I searched the flat high and low for surveillance, for hours it seemed like. I searched through every room, even Mrs. Hudson's place. But no such thing was found. The clock was ticking. 6 hours left.

My next thought was that he might have spoken to John in the hours before sending the message. They were ones he remembered for some reason. I went through them to try and find some significance, some details that were key to each. But there was nothing special about them, they weren't linked, they weren't even in the same parts of—it hit me, then and there.

Leaping up, I went to the bookshelf and found a map of England. I spread it out on the desk and found a marker. Going through each case, I found the locations and planted them on the map.

The severed thumb case was in Berkshire, the ferret one was in Hampshire, the circus lion was in London and the motorcycle in Surrey. Looking at the dots, I thought they'd make some sort of shape to hone in on a location. It made an odd sort of parallelogram, that didn't quite have any location within it that was of any significance, no cases were within the shape. No site or location that seemed to be vital.

I stood up from leaning over the desk and paced, was he just trying to lead me on a wild goose chase or was there merit to these cases. I consulted the map again. A thought occurred to me. I checked the dates of the cases and numbered them, Hampshire, then Berkshire, then Surrey and finally London. I then connected the dots, finding that they made a zigzag. Like a lightning bolt. It all came together; it wasn't a box, it was a letter. M.

I found the end point in East Essex. I picked up the Jim's phone and texted him.

_M. Ending in East Essex. –SH_

He quickly texted back. It was a photo of a jellyfish and the words _5 hours left_.

It took me only a few minutes to figure it out, and I knew exactly where to go.

I called Mycroft at his office.

"Did you figure it out?"

"Yes, I need a car."

"I can have a car come pick—"

"No, I need to go alone." I heard him thinking it over.

"Be right there."

* * *

><p><em>Few more till the end!<em>


	10. Chapter 9

My idea/outline. Shashyking's story.

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or its characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Stephen Moffat.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock's POV<em>

When two cars showed up, one of the drivers exited his vehicle and gave me the keys. I thanked him and quickly got in the car, taking off towards East Essex, towards Beachy Head.

In the two months John and I weren't speaking, I came to Beachy Head for some time off of work, and ended up solving a case involving a Lion's Mane jellyfish, a case I did alone. The drive was only 2 hours, but with waiting for Mycroft to send the car, I had wasted some precious time.

It was almost 10 when I arrived. I made my way over the chalky cliffs and found the Belle Tout lighthouse near their edge, the icon of Beachy Head. Though it was a bed and breakfast now, it seemed deserted, Jim's doing now doubt. I had my gun ready, and my phone in hand. I approached the structure.

Standing outside of the lighthouse was Moriarty, with his hands behind his back, grinning. His eyes were two black beads of hatred in the moonlight.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's been awhile." He drew it out, slow and menacing.

"Quite some time, but I'm sorry to say I don't have much time to talk. Show me he's alive."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, there. Patience is a virtue, my dear. You'll see your precious pet soon enough. I've been dying to chat with you for ages, and you're not going to deny me this talk. You'll regret it." He inspected the fingernails of one of his hands before having it return behind his back.

"The puzzle wasn't hard to figure out. Why was there no challenge, Jim? Are you losing your touch?" His grin fell rather quickly.

"Things aren't always as they seem, Sherlock. I made them simple because I wanted you to have plenty of time. Did you figure it out?"

"How else would I be here? What kind of question is that?" All at once, Jim gave out a throaty laugh, shook his head and clapped his hands together.

"You are a piece of work. And you're proving my point."

"What point would that be, exactly?"

He rubbed his hands together, "You've been seeing and not observing. You're the one losing your touch. This whole time, you've been stuck in your head, trying to solve my clues, trying to find John. In these 12 hours, you were so distracted by your feelings for John and his safety that you didn't even think for a moment of someone else you care about."

"Irene. What have you done with her?"

"Nothing, what kind of guy do you take me for. I'm hurt, Sherlock." He held his chest and gave sad eyes, which quickly morphed into their familiar viciousness, "In fact, she's been doing a whole lot _for me_."

He snapped his fingers. Moments later, Irene was walking out of the lighthouse, pushing a wheel chair with John tied to it, gagged and hands tied together at the front. Irene walked out to the side of the chair and smiled silently. He was bruised and bloody, looking so weak and beaten.

"John." I stepped forward to reach out for him.

"Ah, ah, ah Sherlock," a red dot flickered over John and I quickly stepped back.

"Moran's up there," pointing to the top of the lighthouse. "Don't get to close." He took a few steps, looking out over at the gaping ocean.

"You see, you're so preoccupied with your emotions. This is why you never thought for a moment that she was up to anything more than keeping you and John distant. Would you like to know the best part?"

My eyes were locked on him, but I didn't answer. He spoke anyway.

"This was her plan all along. She only did it to get you two closer than you were before." Her plan? I was confused.

"What plan?"

"Look closely at John, Sherlock. Take a good look and tell me. Tell me how. Deduce for me, show me you still have your touch because right now, you aren't acting very brilliant." His words were like venomous honey, deceivingly sweet, but deadly, stinging, painful.

I made eye contact with Irene, and then with John, looking over his body and position. I saw the pain all over him but I had to focus. I had to figure this out.

"The switched mobile is in his hands. It's important. Couldn't be a bomb, he's had it for four months and something was bound to happen to it. Falling from his grasp or his pocket, slamming on countertops and such. It must have information, then. Top Secret. Information severe enough to—" I froze, fear stricken and a wave of nausea washed over me.

"Come on, Sherlock. I want to hear you say it." Silence. His eyes were daggers.

"Say it! Now!"

"Enough to have him killed."

"That's right." His feathers unruffled and his eyes weren't as stinging. "Now, why would I do all this, go through all these months of tearing you apart just to put you back together?"

"Pain. My pain. You wanted me to suffer from his loss." The words were bitter and cold, just as the man responsible for them.

"You're so smart, Sherlock dear. Irene, you were right, brainy is the new sexy." He rolled his eyes in mock pleasure, biting his lower lip, and letting out a moan. "So good. But, remember, this wasn't my plan, someone else wanted to watch you burn." He guided a hand in Irene's direction.

"You wanted to hurt me? Is that what why you whipped me so much?"

"Weren't you the one begging for it?"

Jim, whistled at us, "Calm down, children. I'll leave you two alone for a bit." He walked past John and ripped the gag out of his mouth. "You too, Johnny boy, give your last words," he said before entering the lighthouse.

We changed positions, facing each other with John beside us halfway between Irene and me, watching as we exchanged biting words.

"Hello, love." Her eyes were just as black as Jim's.

"Enough playing, Irene. Why did you do this?"

"I would have thought that would be fairly obvious, but seeing how you didn't even call me in these last 12 hours, you don't see it. I always knew you still wanted John, from the day you moved in, it hung in your mind, hung over us. You were so desperate for John all this time we'd been together. I was jealous."

"Please, it has to be more than jealousy. Why else?" She drew her lips into a pout and looked down at the grass.

"Why don't you, deduce that? Why so many questions?"

"I already know, you have to say it, it's your burden to bear, not mine." She straightened up before speaking.

"I figured when John was gone, you'd be broken. Shattered and in need of fixing. I'd be there waiting for you to come back to me. Be waiting for you to admit you need me."

"Like hell I need you. I know now I only need John, damn me for ever thinking you could take his place. I made a mistake out of anger and frustration and now I'm paying for it," I looked over at John, who had tears in his eyes, "And even if John left me, I'd never go back to you."

"Why is that? I thought I intrigued you. I thought I was The Woman, Sherlock. You wrote sad songs for me when you thought I was dead. What makes you think you can walk away from me?"

"Because I see you now, I see what you really are. You want John out of the picture because of jealousy and greed and lust and something else. Something much more powerful pushing you to this." She gave a shocked look and it was proof enough for me.

"See, written all over your face. Once you made this plan, this deal, he made sure you wouldn't back down. He threatened you. He threatened, what, your reputation? Your royal family secrets? No, not enough. Your life? Yes. That's why, Irene. That's why I'd never go back to you."

"What are you going on about?"

"You would rather have John killed to save yourself and try to get me back, trying to get back the one you 'love.' But, you know I still love him. You'd have him killed even when you know what that would do to me? You would want me to suffer like that? If you really loved me, you would never even think for a second such a depraved thing. But you hired Jim and you did this all out of selfishness, you're vile and disgusting. I hope you're proud of what you've become."

She was speechless and I found the time I needed to talk to John. As I looked over at John, his face bared so many feelings, so any thoughts.

"John," I went to touch him again but the dot flickered again and I pulled back. I saw that his tears were flowing at this point, "John I need to tell you something."

"Sherlock…I…"

"If I lose you—"

"No, don't. Please, Sherlock." He shook his head, "Don't do this—"

"John, I need to say it. Will you let me?" He looked at me, and after battling with it, he nodded and let me speak. "I've made so many mistakes over the years. They all had to do with how I treated you. I asked so much of you and never thanked you. You put up with me for so long and I can see why you left. I wish I could take it all back and show you how wonderful you are, how amazing you've been to me. I'm so grateful for having you a part of my life. I'm so sorry. And…I love you, so much. Forgive me."

"I forgive you, Sherlock. I really do." His voice was so weak, filled with sobs and hitches. I wanted to hold him so badly, but I had to be strong.

I turned back to Irene and gave my final blow, "I'd rather die than have the one I love suffer, but that's the difference between you and me."

Jim came strolling out and Irene walked back behind John, silent, clearly with cogs turning in her head.

"Have a nice chat? Good. So, Sherlock, anything last words before I call in the troops?"

—-

_John's POV_

I felt so scared, not knowing what was to happen, how this was going to play out. Sherlock gave me his speech and I forgave him for everything.

Moriarty came back out and Irene slowly returned behind me, silent while Sherlock and Jim chatted. The pain from knowing my fate was coursing through me.

As Jim gave Sherlock a few, last quips, Irene leaned down and whispered into my ear, one breath at a time, "Wait. For. My. Signal. Then. Run." She had cut me from the chair as she spoke, slow and making sure not to catch Moran's attention. Before I knew what was happening, she was making her way over to Jim.

"If that's how you want it. I guess this is the end for Dr. Watson, what do you think, Irene?" He turned to her and as she took his side, she gave him a hard stare.

"No, it's mine." She pulled the knife she used to free me from my restraints and stabbed Jim directly in the gut Immediately, Moran's shot was made, taking her out, having her fall limp, pulling Moriarty down with her. As Jim cried out in pain, Sherlock ran to me and I was already up. We made our way behind the lighthouse, out of Moran's vision.

In the distance we heard Moriarty call for his gunman. Sherlock figured how long it would take to come down the steps of the lighthouse and in that time, we made a break for the car. As quickly as we possibly could, we climbed in and spun out of the scene. I didn't even dare to look behind as we sped off.

Hearts pounding and full of adrenaline, we found the nearest, populated town. Sherlock stopped the car and looked at me. My head and face were covered in my own blood from Irene's beatings. My hands were still bound and baring the mobile.

"Can you give me a hand?" I showed him my hands and gave a wry smile.

He met my smile with one of his own, half-cocked grins and untied me, taking the cell phone from my hands.

"Mycroft will want this. He'll get the information out. Don't know if he'll destroy it or keep it. That's the mystery in Mycroft and his line of work." I gave a chuckle before returning to silence. We sat and the thought passed my mind.

"Sherlock?" He turned to me, meeting my look.

"Yes John?"

"She sacrificed herself. Why did she do that?" He sat for some time, thinking, before giving a half smile and responding.

"People do crazy things when they love someone." He got through to her, it went the way he planned, he knew he could make her have a change of heart, because she really did love him. And he really did love me, she couldn't face herself if she went through with this.

They really were similar; Sherlock leaving me and going to her in anger, Irene angry with Sherlock still loving me and calling Jim. I just nodded and Sherlock started the car again, and we drove back to London, all sorts of feelings between the two of us. I reached over and put my hand on his knee.

He smiled at me and took it into his own and held it there as long as he could.


	11. Epilogue

My idea/outline. Shashyking's story.

**Disclaimer:** We do not own Sherlock or its characters. They belong to Mr. Mark Gatiss and Mr. Stephen Moffat.

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><p><em>John's POV<em>

We stepped out of the car Anthea brought us in and we made our way to Mycroft's office. We walked in, and Sherlock held my hand inside his pocket, making sure to keep me as close as he possibly could without pining me to a wall.

"Ah, thank you for bringing this to me, Sherlock. What about the one Moriarty sent you?" Sherlock pull it from his pocket and flipped it in his hand a couple of times, looking at it with grief.

"Can't I keep this one, Mycroft? What if he comes back and sends another message?"

"All the more reason for us to dispose of it." He looked at me and I gave him a shrug. He very reluctantly handed it over to his brother.

"What all did they find at the scene?"

"Well, Irene's body was recovered, there was quite a bit of Moriarty's blood on the scene, but no sign of him or his gunman."

A silence hung over the three of us for a moment, until I spoke.

"I think we should be off, unless there's anything else you need from us, Mycroft." He shook his head.

"You two have done enough. We'll have the data terminated and we can go back to the world as we know it." I turned to Sherlock.

"Shall we get your things?" He smiled brightly at me, remembering he'd be joining me in my life again. In his remembrance of this fact gave him the gall to kiss me in front of his brother before we left his office.

—-

Three months had passed. Sherlock and I were doing cases once again, we were back into our routine at 221B, and things were more or less back to normal. We were in the living, like we usually are when we're not in the bedroom. Sherlock stood at the window while I typed up our latest case while sitting in my armchair.

He had his violin tucked under his chin and beginning to play one of his compositions, one that I had heard before. I had, in fact, heard this tune many times since he returned to Baker Street; it was a composition Sherlock wrote for me years ago.

I remember the night after he was fully moved back in, I came home from Bart's and found him standing in the living room, all dressed up, the fire lit and began playing it for me before we went to dinner. It was such a kind thing, such a gift. Which reminded me.

I put down my laptop, stood and went into our room, retrieving something for Sherlock. Slowly, I crept up behind him as he finished the song.

"That was beautiful." I whispered into his ear. He turned and dropped the violin and bow to his sides.

"Just like you." He leaned in and gave me an open lipped kiss. It made me tremble a bit and I kissed him back, but pulled away before he was satisfied.

"That wasn't very nice, John." He pouted.

"I have something for you." He looked down and saw what I had. In my hands was the grey button up.

"My shirt. The one with the lost buttons." I cocked an eyebrow.

"Lost?" He inspected the shirt and found two replacement buttons were sewn on. Good as new.

"You fixed it."

"Of course." His eyes filled with gratitude and he put down his violin, taking me in his arms. He embraced me for the longest time. We just stood and shared a moment. We were going to be okay, like the shirt wedged between us, we were able to be fixed.

_End._


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